


Ready To Go (Get Me Out Of My Mind)

by Nakkodile_Lex



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ADHD, Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Canon Disabled Character, Character Death, Depression, Drug Abuse, Fighting, Help me come up with a title please, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Hospital AU, Nightmares, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Swearing, attempted suicide, bipolar, idk im sure more characters will be added/figured out, ill add more tags when/if they become nessacary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakkodile_Lex/pseuds/Nakkodile_Lex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamzee and Tavros end up in a mental ward for their various issues and become close. It's cute and sad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh, uh, you take it! Here…” The brunette said, holding out the last candy bar you had both reached for.

“Thanks, bro.” You smile, opening the wrapper.

The kid begins to leave, and the dopey smile you had adopted leaves instantly.

“Hey! Where you all up and goin’, motherfucker?”

He grins back at you, confusedly. Seems he’s the type with a smile on his face no matter what. Cute. “Was there something you needed?” He asks.

You quickly break the candy bar in half, and hand him the larger piece. “Here. Didn’t think I was gonna up and leave you with no chocolate, did you? Do I seem like that kind of dude?”

“Uh...well, I w-” He’s cut off short by the program director calling everyone back to their seats so he can continue with his lecture. Douche.

Doc Scratch is kind of a prick, but sometimes he has some useful advice. So you do your best to listen. At least for the first few minutes. You’re not sure why they think a kid with ADHD could listen to such a monotonous voice for very long. After only about four minutes, maximum, you’re squirming about in your seat. Two minutes after that, you’ve ascertained that the shy kid with the mohawk is not in the two rows of seats in front of you. That leaves only your row and the one behind. You do your best to look inconspicuous as you lean forward and look at to your left and right. Not there either. You lean back, but before you have a chance to turn around, you hear a voice hiss your name. That’s one of the staff, and they don’t sound happy. You try to focus on the doctor for a few minutes more, but the topic today (“Side Effects of Your Medication”) simply cannot hold your interest. So you turn around in your seat, only to find a pair of sweet, but surprised brown eyes peering back. Found him. But before you can so much as grin, or even get him to smile, you feel a STRONG hand on your upper arm.

“Do you need to go to your room, Gamzee?” The aide smiles, but there is no mirth. This is not a question, he is telling you to go.

You shake him off, muttering “I can handle my motherfucking self,” and leave. He trails you down the hallway. You hate it, but you don’t blame him. It’s his job.

You hate your room.

You hate this hospital.

  
  


Your name is Tavros Nitram. You don’t know what to do anymore. Your life is kind of miserable, but for no particular reason. You hate yourself for thinking and feeling this way, but no one is going to come and rescue you. You’re not worth rescuing anyway.

Coming home from school, you drop your bag on the floor and try not to think of all the homework in it. You also try not to think about your day. You pull your old Gameboy out of your pocket and try to lose yourself in pokemon for a while. But even in this, the most mindless of activities that try to keep your brain quiet for a while, the insecurities creep in. They tell you you don’t deserve even the small bit of happiness a game provides you with. They say you should do your homework. They tell you you’re incapable. That you’re inclined to fail anyway. You can't do it. You’re a failure and a wreck and you shouldn’t even try. You should just. Leave. Your thoughts begin to cycle. You try to push them away, and focus on your Charmander, but then your Gameboy dies, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

That’s what you get for wasting all the battery playing at school. Better than talking to some of those guys though, you realized long ago that they have nothing kind to say where you’re considered. Sometimes Vriska takes it upon herself to push you around (literally, instead of figuratively, for once), and while you can’t really trust her not to ram you into a wall while she watches the battle going on on the screen in your lap, it’s not like your legs will feel the impact anyway. Today wasn’t one of those days though, you pushed yourself to and from all of your classes, which you are more than capable of doing. One of the few things you’re good at, you think to yourself. Your upper arm strength is all but useless, since you’re confined to a wheelchair full time.

You were born without full use of your legs due to a condition known as spina bifida. Basically, before you were born, when your spine was supposed to develop, it screwed up. No surprise there, it’s what you’ve done your entire life. You only have one screwed up vertebra, and that led to you being able to walk (with crutches) for some time. But when puberty hit, you started to grow, and the stretch caused pain on your spine that was almost unbearable. Your parents and doctors dulled it with painkillers, but such sharp growth caused your back further trauma, which left you unable to walk by the age of fourteen. You entered high school with a wheelchair,which earned you few friends. When you weren’t in pain, you didn’t really mind your disability much. You’d had to live with it for all of your life, and hey, you can get away with a lot more than your classmates. Plus, you’re excused from the horror that is gym class. You try no to dwell on it too much, and when everyone around you is sitting, you don’t feel too different.Sometimes people offer to push you, but you decline, preferring to maneuver yourself instead. Being pushed makes you feel even more weak and useless than you already are. Some people (*cough* Vriska *cough*) refuse to take no for an answer, and so they “help you”.

“Say thank you for the help, toreadumbass,” is a typical Vriska phrase upon dropping you off in front of your next class. “It’s the polite thing to do, you know.”

“Uh, but, I said I didn’t want your help anyway… and please stop making fun of my chat handle,”

“Whatever,” She says, striding away. “God, you’re such-”

The Vriska in your head is interrupted my knocking on your door. (When did you even start imagining, anyway? That happens to you quite a lot, you’re a daydreamer) Post-knock, your dad pops his head into the room.

“Tavros! Your mom is on a business trip through next week, and I’m heading out for the night. Are you okay to take care of yourself?”

“Uh, yeah, dad, should be fine. Is there food in the fridge?”

He looks surprised. You don’t usually say much to him. “Um. I don’t think so. Order something, okay? I’ve got to go.” And then you’re alone. You hug a plushie and decide you’d rather starve than make a phone call. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks to my lovely beta temporalcinnamon(.tumblr.com)! I'm looking for title suggestions, critique, etc. Yes this fic is named after the Panic! At The Disco song right now. I hope you guys like it so far, let me know. The beginning was inspired by (http://aerynlallaboso.tumblr.com/post/91249250556/reached-for-the-last-snack-item-at-the-same-time) this post.  
> If you weren't sure, yes, Tav's POV is just a bit of prologue for how he ended up in the hospital


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the new tags!

You can’t even convince yourself to get out of bed to find your Gameboy charger let alone haul up your backpack to attempt doing your homework. You’d given up *that* ghost long ago. You’ve been mentally screaming at yourself for an hour or two to do something, anything productive, for an hour at least now, but the weariness in your bones, and the huge amount of effort it takes to do ANYTHING in a wheelchair, keeps you locked in place.

You lay in bed for another hour or four, alone with your thoughts. You hate yourself. Can’t even get out of bed. You roll over from the position on your stomach that you had previously adopted. You push yourself to the edge of your bed, reaching for your side table…. aaand then quickly scramble back onto your bed when you nearly fall off. That was close. It’s happened to you a few times before, and getting yourself back to your chair and then your bed, while not unmanageable, is rather annoyingly difficult. But you’re on a mission, because seriously, this should not be that difficult.

Once you catch your breath, you reach out again, and slide the drawer out and pull it out onto your lap. You locate the small box hidden in the back of the drawer. It contains your razor blades (procured from various sources, mostly pencil sharpeners), but also chapstick, rubbing alcohol, and cotton gauze. You pull out the first two items and grab your cup of water off the top of the side table. This part of the ritual always soothes you. You set down the cup carefully and pop open the chapstick. Finding an area where the previous scars aren’t too fresh, you rub it into the skin of your outer upper arm, softening it.

Once it’s soaked in sufficiently, you rub a bit of water on top of it. Combined, these things make the next part that much easier to make that much worse. You set the water and chapstick aside, picking up the small blade. Reaching up, you poke your skin gently, then slash viciously. As the blood starts to well up, you push in below it and pull up slowly, but hard. You hiss as the deeper cut crosses over the previous one, but don’t stop. The pain takes some of the haze away from your life for a little while. You start to cry as you cross more cuts over your arm, not out of pain, but relief.

Eventually, you decide that you’ve had enough. Well enough to feel ok for now, anyway. You can never truly have enough. You pull out the alcohol and gauze, and proceed to clean your injuries with the alcohol (whining as you do, this is not the good kind of pain, not at all), and then you wrap your arm in the gauze bandages. You pull your sleeve down over it, and while it alone doesn’t cover the blinding white bandage, when you put on your overshirt, you know from experience that you should be all set.

Thus taken care of, you drift off to sleep.

  
  
  


“‘LOZ! Where the hell are you?!” You shout into the house, which seems empty. It can’t be though, Kurloz is on house arrest. “KURLOZ!” You yell again, and hear angry muttering from upstairs. A door opens, and then he appears at the top of the stairs and begins signing angrily.

“<The fuck you doing home, motherfucker?>”

“Dude, we’re so fucked.” You reply, staring at his (rather impressive) bedhead. You don’t bother signing, since he can hear perfectly well.

“<What?>”

“I got motherfucking expelled.”

“<Fuck, kid, what for?>” He glares at you.

“I just, I had some motherfucking shit in my bag, I just forgot it was in there from this weekend, and then I figured, hell, maybe I should just smoke it later, always makes me feel better, so I was takin a motherfuckin look in there to see how much I got, and if my lighter was there or if I’d have to bum one off a bro, and then a motherfuckin teacher all up and comes in and I’m just like shit, and the teach is just looking at me and I’ve got a baggie of weed in my hand, and just, fuck, ‘Loz, the hearings in a week fuck we’re so screwed..” Your mood comes crashing down, and that’s not normal, that usually isn’t in response to anything and you really really need a hit right now but they confiscated all you had left.

Kurloz smirks, the asshole. “<We’re not screwed,>” He signs, “<You’re screwed.>”

“Asshole. So are you going to motherfucking help me or not?”

“<Nope.>”

And with that, he returns to his room. Shit. Oh shit shit shit shiiiiit you are so fucked.

  
  


By the time your trial comes up (luckily you only have one, the school isn’t pressing charges, but they are looking to get you expelled), you’re in a full depressive swing. You were diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 14, but you’d been experiencing symptoms for much of your childhood.The medications you’re supposed to be on would probably help, but they’re all kinds of unnatural, and you really prefer to treat yourself with a joint or two. Much more motherfucking mirthful. You show up to the court, as neatly groomed as you can manage for having untamable hair, no nice clothes, and for having traveled here by bus and bike. You curse Kurloz for refusing to drive you, and really hope he was joking about not showing up.

And then the trial concludes. You are expelled for the end of your junior year and all of your senior year, with no alt. ed. provided. And Kurloz is nowhere to be found. So. You guess you’re just. Done with school now. Are you going to get a job? Can you get a job, at age sixteen and permanently expelled from school? Fuck. You feel like you could cry. Or throw up. Or beat the shit out of your brother/guardian. Yeah.

When you finally get home, almost two hours later, Kurloz is out. Probably getting trashed with Meulin somewhere. Whatever. You go and pop the lock on his bedroom door and grab a bong. You pack it with some of the best shit he’s got, and let it rip. You smoke a whole bowl all on your own, and pretty soon you feel dopey as all get out. You stumble down the stairs, and enter the kitchen. You snag a half empty bottle of lemon vodka, and then raid the fridge and cabinets. You eat your weight in junk food and drink almost half of what remains in the bottle. It’s been over two hours since you returned, and Kurloz is still out. You’re coming down from your pot-based high, but you’re still drunk as a skunk. When ‘Loz finally returns half an hour later, you’re pretty fucking pissed, but you’re also doubled over the toilet, so you can’t exactly confront him. You hear him enter the kitchen as you retch.

He doesn’t say anything (obviously), but the way he stomps and slams cupboards lets you know that he’s pretty pissed. You can deal with that though, you’re pretty pissed yourself, and you intend to do your best to beat down that motherfucker. As soon as you can stand up straight.

Kurloz heads upstairs, and a few minutes later you finally summon the will to leave the bathroom. You head for the nearest room, which happens to be the kitchen. If you had your choice of things, this would be the last room you would be in, but as it is you sink down at the barstool and set your head on the granite counter. Except where the cool stone should be, there is… paper? You raise your fuzzy head and look at it. You groan, because it’s Kurloz’s handwriting.

<HEY DIPSHIT, GET YOUR DRUNK ASS UP AND GO GROCERY SHOPPING. THAT VODKA BETTER BE REPLACED TOO. ~LOZ>

Fuck that. The last thing you want to do right now is leave the house, and anyway, the asshole deserves it. So you manage to stumble to the couch, crumpling up the note and throwing it out on your way there. And then, miraculously, you fall asleep.

You wake up with a hand roughly twisted in your shirt, pulling up your torso. Kurloz’s eyes are blazing, and your head feels like it’s about to split in two. You groan when Kurloz drops you and begins signing furiously. You may be fluent, but you are not awake enough to watch anything move that fast, let alone make sense of it. Eventually he smacks you upside the head and leaves the house. You’re kind of pissed that the rare sleep you get has been interrupted, but you can’t convince yourself to get out of bed (well, couch) even though you’re wide awake.

Eventually, you get up, and grab the now nearly-empty vodka bottle and start drinking. The taste makes your stomach heave, but you force yourself to keep drinking, and soon enough you have a nice buzz going. Kurloz comes home and deposits a few bags of food in his room, before heading back out. The next time he comes through the door, he’s empty handed, the vodka is gone, and you’re drunk and pissed off. As he walks past the living room you dart out and slap him across the face. He retaliates immediately, almost like he was expecting it. He punches you in the face, hard. You land a few more blows, but while you’re both skinny motherfuckers, he’s got some height and a bit of weight on you, and before you know it you’re curled up on the floor, covered in blooming bruises and cuts. He bends down and smacks you one last time, then forces your head up to look at him as he signs “<Get out of my house, motherfucker>”

You’re not even sure you can get up in this state.

He walks away as you start to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's just more prologue! We should start seeing more of them on the ward in a chapter or two! I'm still accepting suggestions for better titles, as well as critique or other comments!


	3. Chapter 3

As more days pass, you find yourself thinking about a certain old friend of yours. Well. More than a friend. Her name was Aradia, and thinking of her always confuses her mind because she simultaneously reminds you of life and death. She was always so kind and sweet and bubbly. She was just full of energy and light. Until she wasn’t.

Aradia had always been dear to you, even before you began dating. You knew she had struggled with depression, but you never saw the full extent of her troubles. Always good at putting on a blank face, she had fooled near everyone. She might have even fooled herself. When her mother found her, she had OD’d on the Zoloft she had been not taking and hiding. No one would ever know whether she was saving them for her suicide or thought she could handle life on her own. Either way, the end result was the same. Her mother walked into her room to find her daughter limp and lifeless, surrounded by a pool of dark red blood she had pulled from her own wrists.

You didn’t go to her funeral. You just couldn’t. You’re a coward, just like Vriska says you are.

The more you think about Aradia, the more you miss her. You wonder why she didn’t get help when she started spiraling again. But at the same time, you understand. Telling someone that you need help can be humiliating. You’ve learned this by living a life without properly working legs (or, um, hips).  

But asking for mental help, you imagine, must be harder. Aradia was so sweet though, she deserved any help she was given. She deserved more than that. She deserves all the help she was given, and more. You should have seen she was struggling, should have talked to her yourself or told someone, anyone who wasn’t as utterly useless as you are. Fuck, that girl deserved everything, and sometimes you can’t believe someone who was so alive is just.  

Gone.

The fallout from her death was huge, despite the few friends she had in life. A ripple of sadness spread around the school, and her family was devastated. That was over a year ago, and just thinking that causes a wave of sadness to rush over you. Death was so unfair.

It should have been you.

More days pass.

You don’t want to live.

More days pass.

Aradia is your inspiration for staying alive.

More days pass.

You’re sick of all this bullshit.

You forget about Aradia’s inspiration.

Nothing has been good for a long time.

You lay in bed among piles of homework, due and past due. It’s too much, you can’t face even the slightest amount. You bury your face in a pillow, and push it away, off the bed. You’re alone. Your brain stops, but you’re still thinking. In a way.

Head fuzzy, you head into the bathroom, grab the acetaminophen off the counter. You bring it back to your room. You grab the small box from your , leaving the drawer haphazardly open and skewed to one side.

You sit yourself neatly on the floor, push your wheelchair away. You’re not going to need it anymore. You grab the bottle of pills, try to twist open the cap. Your hands are shaking badly, which you hadn’t previously noticed. You fumble the bottle a few times before getting it open. You dump out a small handful before simply deciding to take the whole bottle. Which turns out, isn’t much. About? 20 pills? You line them up in a row, in clusters of about three or four each. You take the first group, stopping to gather some spit in your mouth between each pill. You take another group every five minutes or so.

About halfway through, you pull out your kit. You repeat your usual procedure, but on the underside of your wrists this time. You push in, hard, with your largest blade. You force it as deep as you can bear, and try to align it with the veins you can see. You pull up, almost all the way to your elbow. It hurts so much worse than your usual pain, and doesn’t burn as sweetly. But it bleeds. Oh, it bleeds, and it bleeds beautifully. You take more pills, two groups at once this time, and go to work on your other arm.

The gentle tears that have been welling in your eyes begin to fall more strongly. You can’t go back anymore. This isn’t typical. More pills.

More pills.

More pills.

Last pills.

Teardrops and spots of blood fall to your bedroom floor.

You start to choke. You start to vomit, and the tears come ever harder. *No, no, no, no, no you need this to work you can’t stand this anymore but you can’t die if you vomit up the pills, no..*

You drift off to a twilight zone near sleep, blood beginning to dry on your arms as you bleed still more. Your tears don’t stop, even when you’re no longer awake.

 

Suicidality is not beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short guys! I'm winding down on backstory finally, probably two more background chapters tops!  
> Oh, and if you'd like, my tumblr is biologyisbullshit! I don't usually write much on there but if you'd like to send me a drabble prompt or something, there's a good chance I'll write it or whatever :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow sorry this chapter took forever

You’ve been couch-surfing for a while now, and you’re down to your last friend. You didn’t want to stay with Karkat, because he’s your best bro, and pissing him off would lead to devastation on your end. Even in your alcohol- and drug- addled mind you know you couldn’t handle losing your best friend.

But life just loves to fuck you over, and you’ve landed with your best bro. In the past, he’s been good at keeping you in line and your addictions under control, but you have nothing left to lose these days, and even he can’t control you and your vices.

Kar is responsible, not to mention smart, and he’s still in school. You try not to hang out too much during the day, when his parents are around, but you still need somewhere to sleep come nightfall. On this particular day, you happen to be around when he comes home from school (around 5, due to debate team), having come in through his bedroom window, since his parents have decided it would be best not to give their son’s crazy friend a key to their nice house. Fair enough. They’ve got plenty of nice knick-knacks lying around, and you’re vaguely staring at one that seems to be a sexual position made into a necklace and hung in a glass case.

He walks into the living room with a face on that just screams fury, stomps to his bedroom, drops his backpack heavily (It lands with a “fwump” and the sound of sliding textbooks that you can hear from your position sprawled on the living room couch), and lands bodily on his bed. You get up from your lazy position, regrettably leaving the necklace made with the sign of cancer, and precariously perch yourself on the edge of his bed, on one of the only places where his limbs haven’t sprawled out. It’s not unusual for him to be a big ball of anger, but he usually comes home from debates shouted out and relaxed. Well, as relaxed as he gets, anyway.

“Bro, what’s motherfuckin’ up?”

“Fuck you!” He’s shouting, but with his face pressed into the pillow, he’s the volume of a normal, non-shouty person.

“KK?” His insults are usually much more colorful, and have a reason behind them. You haven’t done anything more than the usual to affect him recently, so you can only assume he’s pissed off at something other than you.

He lifts his head, teeth bared, and spits out words between clenched jaws. “What the dickgrabbing fuck do you want, Gamzee.”

“Only want to motherfucking know what’s all up and bothering you.” You slide down to the blanket nest you’ve made on the floor where you sleep most of the time, reach under your best bro’s bed, pull out a Faygo. You pop the cap, take a swig, offer it to the crabby cat sitting on the bed.

He grimaces. “Ugh, no. I wouldn’t want to drink that shit anyway, and with your pot-reeking mouth just having backwashed all in it, no one in their right mind would even touch it. I guess some of your fuckstain stoner bong-water-drinking friends might give it a try, but damn, no way am *I* even considering it. Besides, Faygo is a fucking shitty ass drink anyway, no place good even sells it, where the hell do you even buy that shit. God, I don’t even fucking want to know you probably have some weird-ass soda dealer who’s even more sketchy than the dickstain drug dealers you hang around.”

He relaxes visibly and yells louder as more words spin themselves into meaningless insults flying from his mouth. He’s loved to mouth off for as long as you’ve known him, and his mouth the only thing that’s ever gotten him in trouble. His grades are impeccable, and he works hard for them. Sometimes too hard. He’s gotta learn to relax sometime.

First thing’s first, you wanna know why he’s so much more stressed out than usual today. “Well my wicked brother, you gonna tell me what’s up or what?”

“Ughhhhhhhhhh”

You wait.

“If you have to know, you buglicking bloodstain, there was a really shitty debate today and we lost and I lost particularly badly and my whole asslicking team was counting on me and I let them down, and then I have to come home to your sorry ass and wonder if you’re so out of it that I’m going to have to track you down to some shitty crackhouse and drag you out of there half dead with eyes like glass, or maybe you’ll be home and the whole crotchflipping house is going to reek of pot smoke and I’ll have to clear it out before my parents get home, or maybe one day I’ll find you dead on the carpet from fucking alcohol poisoning. I have to worry about you all the time on top of all my school work and now it’s finals season and I can’t take care of you anymore I’m drowning in work studying and I’m just, fuck, you pierced misery, I care so much and I’m so upset and it’s all crashing down on me at once and just. Ughhhhhhhh.”

“I-”

“Fuck, forget I said anything i don’t need to dump my oozing worry and festering boils of mistakes on to you, just-

Fuck”

“Karbro, it’s okay. Can I give you a hug?”

He eyes you with suspicion, then forces himself to relax and nods.

His body stiffens with your all enveloping touch (you’re much bigger than he is, but that doesn’t stop you from climbing on his tiny lap and wrapping your gangly limbs around him platonically), but eventually relaxes agian as the hug goes on and turns to more of a snuggle.

Later that night, after an awkward meal with KK’s parents, a lot of studying on Karkat’s part and a lot of daydreaming on yours, you and your friend are settled in your beds. You’re not sleeping, of course, you can’t remember the last time you slept without trouble, but your bro’s breaths have evened out enough that you’re pretty sure he’s heavily asleep.

You grab the few things you’ve purchased or rescued from Kurloz’s place, which includes, among a few other things, a blanket, a bong, and a bunch of weed and Faygo.

You scrawl a quick note, pat your best friends messy hair, and head out the door with your things. He doesn’t deserve trouble like you. No one does, so you’re headed to the streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this took forever im seriously sorry guys  
> sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger for tav except i'm totally not


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit it's been a while huh? Gamzee again here.

You’ve been uncomfortable for a few months now, but you’ve been pretty much perpetually stoned the whole time, so it doesn’t particularly bother you. You’re stuck in what is basically the worst part of town, since you’re not sure what would happen if you ran into ‘Kat or ‘Loz, and you don’t particularly want to.

Living on the streets isn’t too bad. You brought one blanket with you, and rescued another from a dumpster to act as a pillow. You had considered washing it at a laundromat, but the cash you had scrounged up was better served as money for pot and drinks. Plus, any pennies you found were automatically donated to your fellows cups. So you just folded it, and used it as is.

You don’t have much money, but the occasional odd job causes you enough of an influx of cash to forget your problems for a little while. Even on the relatively small amounts those jobs provide you with let you spend your money freely and you always give some to those around you, even though you don’t know them particularly well. Those motherfuckers are in need too!

Your favorite was when that circus had come to town. You had decided to take your juggling clubs down near their setup, in hopes that the people down there would be more amenable to make a donation for such an act. It turned out that, while the children were quite attentive to your antics, their parents saw past the clubs to your non-standard clown face and never-sober eyes. Rarely did those who eyed your unofficial employment with such scrutiny donate. And when they tried to throw more than a sizeable tip out of pity into your outwards turned cup, you would always deftly catch your mesmerizing clubs in one hand and tell them in a quiet voice, so that children would not hear, that you “don’t take no pity money, motherfucker.”

But the average folk were small fish, it turns out. You brought your unicycle one day, and despite the difficulty you often have with it, you did manage to get it right for short periods of time throughout the day- enough to double the amount of cash you usually get here. The fact that it was a Saturday helped too. But apparently, the circus goers were not the only ones you had managed to impress. Some of the performers had not only seen you juggling on your unicycle, but they had apparently seen you during that one time when you fell, you mean jumped, off and managed to land still juggling. Yeah. That was motherfucking rad as ALL hell. Wicked.

Anyway. The point was, they had recently lost a clown, so they asked you to fill in for a couple weeks. So you not only clowned around, but, when you asked if there was anything else you could get paid to do, they offered you a longer term job cleaning the stands. That gig had lasted until they left town (you got paid for helping them pack up too), and you inevitably found half full bags of popcorn that you mixed together and took together at least three full bags of popcorn home every day. This enabled you to not only feed yourself but also many of the other homeless people who lived near you, including those who could not work. They’re always so grateful when you show up, even with small things.

Right now though, none of that matters, because you’ve discovered a new way to get smashed, and it’s free. All you have to do is sneak into those wild parties the college kids around here throw, and walk in like you belong here once they’re all sloshed. Free booze, and, if you can make some ‘friends’, oftentimes free weed too. There’s also been lsd, ‘shrooms, ecstasy, even coke once. These parties can get wild.

But seriously, you’re just here for the drinks. Doesn’t matter what it is, its yours, and you don’t worry about it getting spiked, because it’s gone in seconds. You push through a group of drunk college kids hugging, crying, and singing ‘Hakuna Matata’. You don’t bother trying to figure out why as you search out a bottle. A drunk girl drapes herself over your outstretched arm and you abscond the fuck out of there with the tequila bottle you’ve snagged. You don’t bother trying to find your cup anymore. You huddle in an armchair, bruises covering your arms while your fingers shake the bottle cradled in your palms.

You’re drunk, and getting drunker fast. Beer, vodka, bourbon, rum, the ghosts of drinks past haunt you as you down another shot-sized mouthful of tequila. Your body shakes involuntarily as the drink burns its way down your throat.

What were you just thinking about? Ah, who cares. You consider your bottle, now considerably more empty than it was previously. You’re gonna finish it. You can do it. Maybe you should get a cup, this’ll all fit in there, yeah.

Ok no. Nooope. That’s a little past what you can do right now yeah ok. This armchair is pretty comfy, you’ll just stay here and rest, rest and and drink. Comfy. Cool. You’re cool. You’re also puking over the arm of this chair. Ok. That’s fine. Whatever. Hi friend! Yeah I’m fine. Wave him off. Cool. It’s cool. No seriously it’s fucking freezing. Cold. Fingers are cold. Blue? You don’t know what you were holding your hand up for, but it must be pretty important. You drop it. It’s cold.

And the next thing you are aware of is the clean smell of hospital, and unpleasant paper against your skin. You bolt upright, and find that you are exactly where you suspected. A hospital. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. A woman pokes her head into your room at the exact moment you start to get up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this next break between chapters won't be as long! It will be a while though, sorry. School is in, and I've been busy! Feel free to hmu @ biologyisbullshit.tumblr.com for friendship, questions, or just to stare at the trash named Lex  
> Also bonus points to you if you caught the 3OH!3 Don't Trust Me reference


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